The Case of the Conundrum
by orangeships
Summary: When Sherlock, Lestrade & Co. come across a particularly buggy problem -pun intended-, it's time to call in some extra help. Extra loud. Warnings: Other Characters, American attitudes, Anderson, eventual Sherlock/John. Don't own, don't sue me.
1. Chapter 1

"I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL EVERY. SINGLE. GODDAMN. ONE. OF YOU!"

(Doctor) John Watson jerked -no, jumped- awake at the battle cry, hastily got out of bed, remembered to put something on besides boxers -lady in the residence, undoubtedly also where the shout came from- and rushed downstairs. If she was shouting, she was in no mood to be ignored.

The scene when he arrived downstairs was not one that he had the energy to handle -he quickly checked the clock- at 3:37 am.

Dawn, in all her American-rage glory, was assaulting the air with one of the many pillows she slept with, while spontaneously shouting at Sherlock to get his reflexes in gear -reflexes?- and help her.

John leaned against the wall, still in the dark, to soak in the image of Sherlock Holmes being ordered about, not objecting, and actually _obeying_. He immediately felt like a traitor for thinking the word. Not that Sherlock could read minds. Maybe he could. It'd make more sense than the usual I'm-a-misunderstood-genius bit.

He shook his head at the scene. On closer inspection, John realized Sherlock was less than half awake, and armed with a newspaper in the attack against the invisible enemy, he was feebly waving it about in ever changing directions. With a jolt, John also realized that Sherlock had actually been asleep prior to Dawn's declaration of doom against the unknown enemy. Sherlock Holmes, asleep. Woken up by a human being. Not killing them. Then helping them in a 4 am assault against- something. John figured he had better find out.

"And what are we combating? Is it fairies or invisible pixies?" John said sarcastically, stepping into the room.

Dawn stopped waving the pillow around, her eyes zeroing in on John. Sherlock, probably too asleep to be aware of John's arrival, was standing next to the sofa, still half-attempting to hit some invisible target, eyes closed.

"John! Yes! Actually, no. Help. I thought Sherlock's reflexes would help, but he's a zombie. Legit. Zombie." John glanced at said zombie. Sherlock was now standing still. It appeared he had fallen asleep while standing. John gave Dawn a look.

"Don't look at me like that, I know he doesn't get much sleep, but this is important. And probably his fault. Experiments. Grab something, start whacking." she said, her eyes following something still imperceptible to John's eyes in the dim light.

"What am I whacking, exactly?" said John, choosing Sherlock's discarded scarf as his Excalibur.

"Mosquitoes. There's at least a dozen in here, and they've been attacking me. 20 bucks says they're one of Sherlock's experiments. Mutant experiments."

"You woke us up. For mosquitoes."

"They are _mutant_."

"GRRRRMPHHMMM."

Dawn and John both spun towards the noise to find Sherlock, cuddling his beloved skull, sprawled across the pillows on the sofa, his usually arrogant face peaceful.

After a moment of silence, Dawn, with slight bemusement in her voice asked, "Did he just snore? Was that a snore?"

John paused. "Actually, I _think _that was permission to sleep on his bed," he chuckled. "Yours is quite occupied."

After a moment's hesitation, Dawn beamed with happiness and skipped off to Sherlock's room, pillow still in hand, gleefully slamming the door shut behind her. John could hear her exclaim "Wow!" behind the door.

"Well, seeing as I'm awake, I'll make a cuppa. Want some, Sherlock?"

Sherlock snorted in his sleep.

"I thought you might." John replied, and walked over to the kitchen.

* * *

><p>Dawn arrived on a Monday. It figures, John had thought. He hated Mondays. Not that he hated Dawn. He liked her. He found her quite amusing. Baffling. Talented. Energetic. Very energetic. Not to the point of annoying, thought. At least, not for John. Sherlock had other views.<p>

* * *

><p>DI Lestrade looked tense. He had every reason to. The case was not going well, for one. Even Sherlock seemed a bit peeved at the dead ends, false trails, and the frankly alarming amount of bugs they kept running into, and was happy to channel his frustration on Anderson, Sergeant Donovan, an innocent old lady who happened to have the misfortune of passing by the crime scene at the wrong time, and generally anyone else who didn't have the sense to steer clear of him. Even Doctor Watson's efforts to diffuse Sherlock had failed. The Doctor obviously had a hold on the man and could reel him in most of the time, but Sherlock's frustration had reached new levels of immunity to even the Doctor's attempts.<p>

At least it was Monday. He never thought he's say it, but he loved this Monday. This Monday meant the arrival of the team from America. Usually his pride would clash with his gratitude for the extra help, but he knew they really needed the lot of them. God help me, he thought. I say that a lot.

The team were a bunch of 'random' 'top-notch operatives' selected from intelligence agencies, a private agency, and homicide police units. Apparently the 6 of them were restless, itching to go somewhere new. A few favors called in and the team had been sent to London, landing in Lestrade's grateful, outstretched arms. The team had been put together about a month and a half ago according to the report. London wasn't their first destination, and it definitely wasn't their last. He had to make the best of the time he got.

Lestrade paced around his office, thinking for the billionth time that he was definitely wearing the floor down in a line. He recalled the file. Two genius forensics. One private detective with contacts in London. One forensic entomologist. One emotional analyst. One serial killer expert. The 'safety measures' constituted that before he met them, he only knew what they were, not who they were.

Not that he wasn't glad for all of them, he was, but he was especially thankful for the emotional analyst. Apparently he? She? Was very young but very talented, working for intelligence agencies in America, but also a freelancer. With a grimace, he thought of how much that reminded him of Sherlock. Evidently the fellow was very good with people in general. The bloke he spoke to on the phone about the transfer said that the emotional analyst 'could start a war in a monastery and bring peace in a room full of men armed with nuclear bombs' (the latter of which the analyst is rumored to have experience with.)

Looking through his blinds at the scene outside his office, he thought that whoever the analyst was, he would probably prefer the bomb situation to Sherlock's tantrums.

And so he needed both, the unstable genius consulting detective, and the genius emotional manipulator.

What could possibly go wrong?

God help him.

As if on cue, everyone outside his office was suddenly quiet, and he definitely heard footsteps. Not wanting to miss the opportunity of seeing Sherlock's first impression, he peeked behind his blinds again. Donovan looked like all her prayers had been answered, Anderson was pouting, (he was not happy about the 'genius' forensics) Watson looked confused at everyone's sudden quiet, (_of course_ Sherlock didn't tell him a thing, Lestrade should have remembered to tell him), and, again, _of course_ Sherlock had his poker face on.

Lestrade rolled his eyes (a symptom of talking to Americans too much over the past few weeks) and retreated behind the blinds as The Team made their way to his office.

* * *

><p>"What was that? Who are they?" John asked, looking around at the other three. A second ago, they had been flinging insults and accusations around the room, several of the insults hitting John, who had resolved to patiently wait out their tantrum. Now, it was eerily quiet.<p>

No one answered.

"Sherlock, who were they?"

Silence.

"Right," John said, amused at himself for thinking anyone actually would tell him anything.

He made his way to Lestrade's office, obviously the direction that the strangers were heading for as well.

* * *

><p>Lestrade was just introducing himself when there was a knock on the door. It was Watson.<p>

"Oh, John, good. Come meet the team that they sent from America to help us out on the case. Sherlock didn't tell you?" half statement, half question.

"No, he didn't." He didn't sound too annoyed. John reached out to shake the hands of the ones closest to him.

"This is- well, I don't really know your names." Lestrade said, feeling too exhausted to be polite.

The young girl to the back piped up. "Oh, that's okay. Really. I hate the security procedures too. Everyone is always, 'Oh, we're so glad you're here-who are you again?'" the rest of the team laughed. Lestrade noticed that the team seemed to take their cues from her.

She extended her hand to Watson and said, "Doctor John Watson? Hi, I'm Dawn."

Lestrade cut in. "Wait, how do you know who he-"

"Oh, the person who set up the transfer gave me files. Lots of files. Do you know him? I dunno his name. Plain-looking guy. He's quite low in the British government, but he really knows his way around. Is involved in the CIA and FBI too, not that I'm supposed to know that. He's like a shadow king, I swear." John visibly paled. "Anyway, he gave me more information than I ever wanted to know about Sherlock Holmes. Ever." she said, looking exasperated. Lestrade noted she looked very young, not even twenty.

"No, I'm not sixteen, stop looking at me like that. I'm twenty-two. Seriously." she said, not quite glaring.

She turned to the others, obviously to introduce them, when it occurred to Lestrade who she was.

"You're the emotional analyst?" Lestrade asked, trying to keep the tone of disbelief from his voice. John watched silently.

"Again, twenty-two, really." she paused. She gestured to the tall woman with long, dark brown hair and unsettling blue eyes. "Well, this is Michelle Keenan, private detective," Then she gestured to the identical hispanic twins; average height, stocky build, green eyes, short hair. "Oscar and Juan Estevez, forensics experts," the tall, skinny man of about Dawn's age, glasses, short hair, brown eyes, pale. And, Lestrade added to his thought, twitchy. "David Jenkins, the entomologist," the tall, blond, tan, muscled man in a very expensive looking suit, blue eyes. "and Brian Gall, serial killer know-it-all." she said with a grin.

"Oh, right, and me. Dawn Smith, "emotional analyst" because there's really no better word for me. You're probably cataloging us in your mind right now, and if you could put me down as a-little-less-than-average height, instead of short? I hate it when people call me short. I'm John's height. I'm not short." She smiled at John, and then turned towards Lestrade.

She was indeed John's height, average weight, shoulder-length dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, a very porcelain-doll-like face except for her bony nose. Not tan, but darker than normal. She looked ominously energetic.

Lestrade cleared his throat. With a look towards John, who was still quiet, he said "Well, you've just flown in. We haven't had a new body for 36 hours, and the pattern seems to be 4 or 5 days between each. You should go to your hotel, get some rest. We'll send a car in the morning. And if one of you has the file with contact information-"

Dawn handed it to him.

"Right. Anything you need, call. Get some sleep. And... Welcome to London." He finished lamely.

All of them filed out, except for Dawn. David looked back at Dawn, as if asking a question, then left.

"I would rather stay," Dawn explained. "Jet lag doesn't go away if you fall asleep in the middle of the day, you're supposed to fight it until nighttime. I'd rather get started."

She smiled at Lestrade, then took a surprised John by the arm and cheerfully left the office.

This was going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

John was steered towards the spot where he had left Sherlock, Anderson, and Donovan. There was an icy atmosphere, but Sherlock had finally gotten the casefiles he was after, and somehow, Anderson had shut him up about his affair. Maybe they had unwittingly stumbled on the meaning of compromise, John thought darkly.

"Could you introduce me?" Dawn asked, nudging John with her elbow. Her eyes were on Sherlock, who was resolutely not looking up from the papers, as if Dawn had committed a personal offense.

"Yes," mumbled John, "Yeah, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan, that's Anderson, who is on the forensic team and this i-"

"Sally? I can call you Sally, right?" Dawn asked, cutting John off short. John could have sworn he_ felt_ Sherlock twitch.

"Yeah, you can." Donovan said, crossing her arms, eyeing Dawn.

"Ooo-kay then. Could you possibly show me a copy of the case files?" Sherlock definitely twitched now. Still not looking up.

Donovan looked like she was battling out her options. On one hand, she didn't know who the girl was and didn't like her. On the other hand, she wanted to annoy Sherlock as much as possible.

She smiled icily, "Sure. Right this way."

Donovan and Dawn went down the hall to the archives, and Anderson, not liking his odds of two-against-one, left.

"Sherlock." Still not looking up. "_Sherlock._"

"John, even _your_ powers of observation, incredibly substandard when compared to _mine_, can tell you that I'm _busy reading_." He drawled. His eyes were icy blue at the moment, running back and forth across the paper. He was sitting straight, with his arms on the table either side of the files, head bent forward in concentration, as if he were trying to meditate the answer of out the ink.

"Who are they?" John asked Sherlock.

"Don't play dumb." Sherlock deadpanned.

"Alright, yeah, they're a team from America. Sherlock, why, _how_?"

Sherlock finally looked up from the papers, put his fingertips together, and gave John his full attention.

"Detective Inspective Lestrade has been under stress with this case," he said, with something resembling regret in his tone," The body count is going up, and so far we have immense data but no leads. He is _obviously _under pressure from someone higher in the hierarchy, probably government." John winced. "The media is mocking the Yard's incompetence (nice of them to _finally_ catch up) and our delightfully interesting serial killer keeps killing. Usually this wouldn't be enough for Lestrade to call in favors, especially for outside help; he hates having to call _me _in, let alone someone he doesn't know. Lestrade's position is stable, so it's not work related. Personal, then. It's not financial; he wore a new suit today with expensive cufflinks. Not standard for the police, but he had people to impress. He keeps rubbing his ring whenever he paces, so it's probably marital, but not about his kids. She suspects- no, Lestrade suspects she's cheating, but she's actually not. Obviously. He's been working overtime so he probably hasn't been able to smooth it over with his wife after their fight about his suspicions. She's not responding to his texts. Seeing how this case is going, Lestrade is sure to work more and more. The wife is definitely considering cheating now. So Lestrade feels that he needs to fix _something_, at least." He paused, turned his eyes to the desk and frowned in concentration, then locked his eyes with John's.

"That's the _why_. Lestrade called in favors from that ridiculous man with a fondness for tweed jackets, and judging from their handshake, he's a university friend. Too intimate to be work friends, too loose to be colleagues, too short to be infrequent acquaintances," he explained."Judging by his alarming lack of style he's not very high up in any office and it's frankly surprising that he's in this one. That doesn't explain how this team was brought over so quickly, so Lestrade _thinks_ it was his friend, when in fact it's someone higher up who handled the transfer." He paused again. Slowly, he turned in his chair. His gaze had become calculating.

"You winced, John. Why did you wince?"

John blinked. "Brilliant. Wait, what?"

"You winced when I mentioned pressure from the government."

John hesitated, and then decided. "It's Mycroft. He set up the transfer."

Sherlock took a deep breath, his elbows now on the arms of the chair, his fingertips still aligned and touching his neck. He looks like a king, John thought.

"Ah." then he focused his attention once again on one Doctor John Watson, and asked "Can you tell me the exact occupations of the team sent over? Lestrade forgot to mention."

John frowned. "Don't lie. If he's not telling you, neither am I."

Sherlock pouted ridiculously. A part of John, in the back of his mind, noted that his eyes were now greenish blue.

John sighed. "Twin forensics. Serial killer 'know it all'. Emotional analyst, that's the girl that left with Sally, entomologist, and private detective."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Emotional analyst?"

"Yep."

"I do_ not_ need a babysitter!" Sherlock shouted, looking up at the ceiling.

John's pocket buzzed. He took out his phone. One new message.

_Yes he does. -MH _

"Uh, Sherlock..." John was about to tell Sherlock, when the door that led to the hallway burst open, laughter filling the room.

"You should have seen his_ face_! I wish I had a camera. All the bloody time, being arrogant, saying that he's the reason our collective arse is saved half the time- and we ended up saving _him_. He looked like he was going to have a bloody heart attack!" And Sally had another fit of laughter, Dawn laughing along with her. They were walking back towards where Sherlock and John were, case files in hand. Sherlock frowned. She had more case files than he did.

Sally dropped her narrative as soon as she saw Sherlock. She frowned. "Oh, hello fr-" she glanced at Dawn. "Um, Sherlock." Dawn smiled encouragingly.

John was dumbfounded. He could have sworn they had walked out of the room looking like enemies. Now they were best friends.

Dawn beamed at John's confused look. She then dropped her case files inelegantly on a nearby chair.

Sally walked over to the desk Sherlock was occupying, and started to pick up the papers. Sherlock made a noise of protest.

"You're going to be working with her, so you can use her copies." Sally said coldly. She turned to Dawn and smiled. "Tomorrow night, then?"

"Definitely! And you're _so_ wearing that green dress." Dawn said, smiling back. "See you tomorrow."

Sally left the cubicle with the papers.

Sherlock spoke. "Bit young to have a title, aren't you? Especially right out of college, with a degree irrelevant to your current area. Literature?"

Dawn sat down on the other side of the desk. "Creative writing, actually. But let's not forget that _your_ childhood dream was to be a vet." They were both looking at each other, like a staring contest.

"Mycroft exaggerates."

"Is having ridiculous names like a family thing?"

"Is having a ridiculous accent an American 'thing'?"

John was watching them like a tennis match, his head going back and forth.

"And sweetie," Dawn said, "It's induction."

Sherlock frowned, not understanding what she was referring to.

"The science of deduction? _Wrong_." John held in a laugh. "It's supposed to be the science of induction. You don't deduce, you induce. Inductive logic is observing, relying on past experience or information, using probability and analogy to confirm your theories. Which is what you do."

Absolute silence in the cubicle. John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by Dawn.

"Of course, many scientists refute that it's logic at all. See, while it may work on most things, it's actually quite fallible. If you watch apples falling down, you come to the conclusion that apples fall down, not up or sideway. And, _voila, _theory of gravity. But, for example, if you're looking at 100 horses and they're all brown, after seeing each one you'll come to the conclusion that all horses are brown, and they're obviously not. So, really, you're just doing guesswork."

Sherlock looked completely calm. That is, if you didn't look at his eyes. His eyes were ice.

Dawn chuckled. "Of course, you do the most accurate guesswork anyone's ever seen, and you're hardly ever wrong. The Yard would be _lost_ without your help half the time, and it's a pity most people aren't intelligent enough to appreciate your cleverness. _Clever_ isn't even a good enough word. Genius suits you better." she said, her voice full of admiration.

Sherlock looked mollified. John was horrified. She had just ruffled his temper up to a dangerous level and then made him purr in a matter of seconds.

"That being said," she continued, "Hi, I'm Dawn Smith. I'm your white horse." she extended her hand, glowing with her sweetest smile yet.

Sherlock stood, bowed his head in Dawn's direction, and turned towards the door.

"Get your coat, John."

* * *

><p>Lestrade was just about to head out for more nicotine patches when he saw Sherlock and John about to leave, John looking amused.<p>

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and said "I'll text you later. We are leaving for the day. Let me know if there are any developments, and for God's sake keep Anderson away from the scene next time."

"But it hasn't even been 2 days; you think he'll do it again soon?"

"Anderson is bound to screw up everything all the time; he's probably doing it now. Maybe even with one of my favorite sergeants." He said, a wolfish grin on his face.

"Nah, she broke up with him." Dawn said, coming to a stop right beside Lestrade. Sherlock gave her a look. "You know what I mean, Sherlock. Will the murderer kill again soon?" Lestrade asked, impatient.

Sherlock huffed. "He's killing earlier and earlier each time. I wouldn't be surprised."

"You're never surprised." John said. Sherlock grinned.

Dawn poked Lestrade. "Are you going to tell-"

"Well, we're off, so sorry, stuff to do." Sherlock said. He seemed to have sensed that he was about to be told something unpleasant. "Text!" He reminded Lestrade, before sweeping away in a dramatic fashion, his coat adding to the effect.

John looked at Lestrade. "What? Tell him what?"

Lestrade and Dawn exchanged looks.

"I'm your new roomie." Dawn explained.

"Roomie?"

"Lodger." Lestrade translated.

John looked in disbelief at Dawn. "You're our new... lodger? We have a new lodger?"

Dawn grinned, and then skipped off in the direction that the consulting detective had gone.

John looked uncertainly at Lestrade. He was about to turn away and follow Dawn, but stopped. "Um... Maybe you should... Take a night off, mate." He said, trying to sound casual.

Lestrade frowned. "Why's that?"

John didn't answer, not sure how to.

Lestrade asked, "Sherlock?"

"Yes, he figures it'd be best if you...did." John said, relieved Lestrade had figured it out. He nodded awkwardly and left, heading in the direction that the madman and madwoman had gone.


	3. Chapter 3

When John exited the building, Dawn was standing on the curb, examining the busy street. She turned when she heard his footsteps.

"Sherlock apparently left. He does that a lot?"

"Yep." John said. He put his hands in his pockets defensively.

"Oh, I'm not going to bite." Dawn said, laughing. They started walking, almost unconsciously, towards Baker Street.

After a moment of silence, John asked, "How did you do that? With Sally?" He looked at Dawn.

"You mean with Anderson and the breakup?"

"No, the whole... How she was. When you went out she didn't like you. When you came back in you were laughing together."

"Oh, I'm just friendly. She warmed up when she found out who I was. Then we started talking about Sherlock, and we were laughing about the Jim Moriarty pool incident."

"She told you that?"

"No, Mycroft gave me everything. From your report to the pool surveillance, I know everything." She shivered, pulled her sweater tighter around her. "It's _cold_ here."

John chuckled. "This is actually a nice day." He shrugged off his jacket.

"Oh, great." she replied sarcastically. John handed her his jacket. "Thanks."

"Wait," John said. "Why would they have surveillance in a pool?"

She frowned. "You're right. That's odd. Oh, oh wait, no. Mycroft told me Jim set it up."

"Ah," John nodded. "Definitely like him. Very kinky."

Dawn laughed. "I mean, I haven't met the guy, but he sounds like a world class creep. With serious issues. And I can think of like 10 mental disorders from the top of my head. He's like a psychologist's wet dream."

John laughed, then nodded.

Dawn continued. "And he definitely had (no, has, sorry)" John chuckled. "the hots for Sherlock. I mean like, 5th-grader style. Except for notes, he just used people with bombs strapped to them." She shook her head. "What a way to ask someone out." She subtly glanced sideways at John, gauging his reaction.

John chuckled. "Yeah, and instead of valentines and roses, he preferred snipers."

"Gosh, that's the dream. When I get proposed to, that's how it should be done. I don't want a ring, I'd much rather have a gun in my face." She said sarcastically.

John roared with laughter.

"Don't forget the cryptic messages. God, never do I want a woman to speak plain to me. Please confuse me." He said, nodding his head enthusiastically. "And if someone wants my attention? They can't just text or call. They absolutely have to murder people."

Dawn giggled. "You're right, it's just not the same when your boyfriend doesn't murder someone to get you to go out and get some milk. It's _the_ most romantic incentive to go out and do the shopping."

John groaned. "Don't mention getting milk."

"Ooh, domestic one in the household, are we?" She asked, nudging him.

John glared at her. She sniggered.

"We don't do domestic. 'Domestic', normal flatmate relationships are where you respect privacy, personal space, social guidelines..." John said.

"Yes, and it looks like it's very, very possible to have a normal flatmate relationship with Sherlock." Dawn said, rolling her eyes. "But maybe some other kind of relationship?" she asked tentatively.

"No. We're not... Everyone assumes we are, but we aren't."

"I know, emotional analyst, duh." She said. She looked sideways at him again, pushing her unruly hair behind her ear as she walked. "I'm just saying it could be."

John looked at her disbelievingly. "No- I'm not- and he isn't- at least i don't- really, I mean, we're not."

"Very smoothly put, Shakespeare." She said, laughing. "Okay, I must be wrong then. By the way, that's sarcasm." John tried to glare at her, and laughed. "Look at you though, you're exactly like him, aren't you? _You'd_ be the one in a relationship with him."

"Okay, no. Don't say that, that's rude. _Lots_ of people are arrogant and always right." John raised his eyebrows at her. She continued, "Just because we're in the same club doesn't mean we're meant for each other."

"That," John said, pointing his finger at Dawn, "is a very heavy denial. You _like _him." he chortled.

"Nooo, it's not like _that_." Dawn said, pushing him playfully.

John nodded. "Yes, I definitely believe you now. You have me convinced."

"No, he's just," Dawn paused for effect, choosing her next move carefully. "He's really kinda _cute_." She looked at John. He nodded.

"Yeah, I guess he would be."

"Oh come _on_. He's gorgeous and you know it. John thinks Sherlock is pretty, nananananaaa..." She began singing.

He chuckled. "No, stop that. We might run into someone I know." He mock looked around him in panic.

She laughed. "You think he's gorgeous!" She taunted.

"No, no. For a bloke he's alright, I guess."

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Suuuuuure, uhhuh, that's all, I bet."

John laughed. "Alright, alright. He has nice eyes. But I am straight, you know." Dawn ignored the last comment. "_Nice eyes_? He has nice everything!" she decided to let the topic drop, and went for another. "Speaking of which, and when I say 'speaking of which', I mean this is totally opposite of what i was saying, but what's with the Anderson guy?"

"Totally opposite, how, exactly?" John asked.

"As in we were just talking about a gorgeous guy, and now we're talking about a repulsive one." She explained.

John chuckled. "I don't know the exact background between him and Sherlock, but I'll tell you the whole story-"

Dawn's eyes widened in mock awe. "The _whole_ story? You mean the one that I haven't already read in creepily detailed files?" Dawn covered her mouth with her hand, as if shocked.

John shrugged, grinning. "I'm not even going to ask. But if you don't want me to tell you, alright..."

Dawn frowned. "No, no, tell me. I don't have the version with your commentary. And your blog is really short."

John looked at her. "From the very beginning, then?"

Dawn nodded dramatically. "The _very_ beginning. And fairytale style."

John smiled. "Well, Once Upon a Time, a bloke with a cane was walking in the park..."

By the time they made it back to the flat, it was around 2 pm. They'd spent an hour walking and talking towards Baker Street. John was surprised at how easily he opened up to her. He didn't even hesitate to tell her that he'd shot the cabbie in the incident with the suicide pills.

Well, not surprised. It _was_ her field. She got paid to be chummy with people. It didn't take away the enjoyment of her company, though. He'd been laughing constantly for the past hour. She'd told him how she got Sally to break up with Anderson, and how she was going to go dancing with Sally the following evening, how she'd set her mind on setting up everyone on her team with someone in the Yard. "I'm really just a brilliant matchmaker at heart, John. The crime stuff is in between my true passion." She'd said, giggling.

She'd been so easy to talk to. They'd jumped from topic to topic without missing a beat.

As they entered the flat they were debating why koala bears were violent.

"They were hunted down almost to extinction," John said reasonably. "I'd be bothered if that was happening to my family."

"No, they don't remember that stuff. _I _think it's 'cause they're bored. They sleep all day, eat all day, hang all day. If I was forced to do that, I'd bite people too."

"I, for one, definitely know the dangers of bored people." John said, as he climbed the stairs, Dawn following behind. He smiled.

"Bored and armed people." Dawn corrected. As they opened the door to the flat, John heard Mycroft's voice. He froze.

Dawn smiled. "Ooh, excitement."

They walked into the sitting room, Dawn shyly walking behind John, as if he expected something to attack. John didn't blame her. There was an abundance of zombie-like body parts around the room.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, violin in hand, eyes as icy as they had been that morning. Not a good sign, that.

Mycroft, sitting opposite, was the essence of calm itself, umbrella twirling in hand.

"Ah, hello Doctor Watson, Miss Smith." he smiled.

John corrected "John." at the same time Dawn said "Dawn." Dawn smiled.

"It rhymes." Mycroft said.

Sherlock sniffed. If possible, he looked even more haughty then when they had walked in. He turned his attention to the violin strings, dextrous hands running over them but not plucking. He was obviously going to ignore everything until Mycroft left.

"So... This isn't awkward." Dawn said casually. She had found Sherlock's skull and was turning it over in her hand.

"Quite." Mycroft said.

"Would you like some tea?" John asked, ever the Englishman.

"Unfortunately, no. I should probably leave." He stood, towering over Dawn, who smiled at him warmly.

"Next time, when you drop by, could you bring the real, not-a-lie Jim Moriarty files? I'd love that." She said sweetly.

Mycroft smiled. "No promises." he said, and nodded in John's direction, before turning to Sherlock.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

Sherlock plucked his violin.

Mycroft left.

"John entered the sitting room once again. "Tea, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored him.

Dawn poked John. He shook his head as if to say 'I don't know.' She shrugged and went to sit on the sofa, skull still in hand.

"Nice place." she said. John snorted. Sherlock looked up- and froze. His eyes zeroed in on Dawn's hand on his precious skull.

Dawn frowned. "Are we possessive about the skull?" she asked.

John nodded. "We are very possessive about the skull." She slowly set it down on the sofa. Once her fingers were off it, Sherlock resumed plucking.

"I tried." She said. "Your turn again, John."

"Has it occurred to you I'm not interested in a conversation?" Sherlock asked coolly, his baritone voice raising goose-bumps on Dawn's arms.

"Um-"

"Is it California? Where you're from?"

"Oh. No. It's not. Same climate thought, don't feel bad."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in frustration. "Mediterranean? That's not anywhere else in America. North Africa, South Europe, and Australia." He turned his eyes on her.

"No, I'm not telling. You can figure it out."

John spoke up. "I'm off to surgery, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "You canceled this week."

"Yeah, well now I'm going back. They brought in a team, I don't need to take off the whole week."

"Why?"

"Because it'll be solved."

"Such confidence in a bunch of amateurs." Sherlock said, locking eyes with Dawn, daring her to comment.

"Actually, it's confidence in Dawn, Sherlock. I'm sure that Lestrade will be able to wrap this case up with your help when you stop upsetting people." He grabbed his coat. "Don't touch my laptop." He left.


End file.
